...and then you realize that all your blog posts are about your vagina...

Have you ever had one of those moments where you hate the phone so much it almost puts you in a bad mood for the rest of the day? All because you're scared to call the poshy salon down the street to make an appointment for a bikini wax, because it's been six weeks and you know it's gonna hurt, or because you have to work later that night and you know that's gonna hurt, or because you're just a little too phone shy to explain all that to a receptionist, and you think that asking for an appointment "right now" would be rude, but then again walking in would probably be ruder?

Just me then?

Echapper

We found a new place, half the distance from work, and on the right side of town. They've got a one-bedroom (unfortunately on the first floor) coming available in July, and we're breaking our lease here and moving. The new place has ample parking, washer and dryer in the unit, ice maker in the fridge, indoor pool & jacuzzi, tanning bed, sauna, basketball court - all open until 10 p.m. Plus, it's down the road from a Gold's Gym that has Les Mills classes. I'm just so happy to get out of here.

My brother's in town, and he and Irish are watching Good Luck, Chuck and creaming over Jessica Alba. My old roommate once told me that I kind of look like her, but I think I'd need a nose job to really pull it off. I don't know why it upsets me, but I guess I'm just used to Irish only making those sorts of lewd comments about me. On the other hand, I'm glad he's bonding with my brother.

Irish found out yesterday that his aunt (mom's brother's wife) has brain cancer, and that one of the tumors is inoperable, and that she's been given 8-12 months to live. So that's hard. It may be the first really hard thing we have to deal with together. I mean, aside from both our pasts, with the deaths and divorces.

Speaking of which, my divorce (which still just feels more like a breakup, or an edit-undo) is final as of today.

Elle from the block

It occurs to me that, as much as we think of all of our colorful neighbors as illegal immigrants, or crazy people, they probably consider us to be the local white trash.

Seriously, I can't walk from my car to my apartment without hearing somebody crying, screaming at a crying baby, having a domestic argument - whether in English or otherwise... Some nights I'm actually kept up listening to this sort of thing making its way through the closed windows. Once, while watching American Idol, we even heard a gunshot.

But I feel that Irish and I make up for it, or at least claim our piece of the noise pollution, by having sex. Loud sex. Lots of it.

And if anybody ever confronts us on it, maybe I'll just tell them we feel left out, so we're trying to get a baby to scream at, too.